


Like Father, Like Son

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Conversations, Family, Father & Son - Freeform, Friendship, Future, Gen, Grudges, History, Jealousies, Legacies, Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 13:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15886989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Gary discusses young Trebond with his father. Set during Alanna: The First Adventure.





	Like Father, Like Son

Like Father, Like Son

“Gary.” Gareth glanced up from his pile of parchment at his son, following Timon’s announcement of his presence, entered his office. The boy appeared to have grown at least another inch since the last time Gareth had seen him being at a stage where he shot up like a beanstalk whenever Gareth looked away for more than a minute. “You’re young Alan of Trebond’s sponsor.” 

“I have that honor, yes.” Gary inclined his head while Gareth watched from the corner of his eyes Timon vanish from the study with a bow. Jon, Gareth had realized long ago, often asked Gary to sponsor new boys to whom he took a shine. Gareth could only surmise that young Trebond’s luster was the allure of a mystery since his father had his mind too much in the sky to bother introducing his sons to the court, and Jon had ever been attracted to novelties. It was a compliment to Gary’s cleverness and a declaration of the prince’s confidence in him that he was continually chosen as the one to sponsor new boys in whose welfare Jon was interested. That, Gareth supposed, must have been what his son was referring to when he described it as an honor to serve as young Trebond’s sponsor. 

“I require a report from you on his progress so I can update Lord Alan on how his son fares in training.” Rummaging through his stack of documents that never seemed to become any less imposing no matter how many tasks he accomplished in a day, Gareth added inwardly that he doubted very much that the Lord of Trebond would bestir himself to read such a letter. Lord Alan, as Gareth understood it, was too enmeshed in his arcane research to concern himself with such mundane affairs as correspondence with the country’s Prime Minister or his son’s training master. Gareth wouldn’t have even been shocked to learn that the great scholar of Trebond had forgotten that he had a son enrolled in knighthood training at the palace, but Gareth would fulfill what he suspected would be the meaningless ritual of updating Lord Alan on his son’s progress as duty demanded. He finally located the form he was searching for, separated it from the rest of the parchment, and poised his quill over it, prepared to write as Gary reported on young Trebond. “I trust you’ve made enough such reports to know the information I need.” 

“Of course, Father.” Gary leaned back in the chair he had obviously taken advantage of Gareth’s distraction throughout the hunt for the form to slide into unobtrusively. Now he was flaunting his lack of permission to be seated but Gareth chose to ignore that. There weren’t sufficient hours in a day to address his son’s every mischief. Best to save his ire for the truly egregious transgressions Gary would inevitably commit. “Academically, Alan of Trebond is average to above average in all his studies except mathematics which gives him difficulty. He arrived able to read and write, not adding himself to the appalling number of noblemen’s sons who can’t.” 

“If there’s one thing the Lord of Trebond would’ve taught his son, it’s reading and writing.” Gareth’s lips thinned as he finished making a note of his son’s words on young Trebond’s academics. 

“By my count, that’s two things, Father.” Gary’s beam was bright at the opportunity to correct his father, and Gareth restrained a snort. “Young Trebond displays a distinct aptitude for history while his boundless enthusiasm for etiquette and philosophy lessons rivals that of any page.” 

“You know that I can’t use half of what you just told me.” Gareth arched an admonishing eyebrow at his son as he wrote about Alan of Trebond’s aptitude for history but omitted the snide allusion to the etiquette and philosophy classes pages universally regarded as duller than drying paint.

“I’ve the utmost faith in you to discover and polish the diamonds in the dungheap, Father.” Gary’s beam broadened as he went on, changing the subject to Alan of Trebond’s prowess in the fighting arts. “In the practice courts, Alan of Trebond is more than competent at everything from archery to riding. He’s small but strong and feisty as would be expected from a firetop.” 

“That’s unexpected given who his father is but sons don’t always follow in the footsteps of their fathers.” Gareth recorded all his son had said about Alan of Trebond’s combat skills but left out the hair color commentary. 

It only occurred to Gareth that he might have gone too far in his remarks on the Lord of Trebond when Gary’s sunny face clouded. “I find young Trebond to be good company. He makes many magnificent jokes without being aware of it.” 

“I’m not going to forbid you from being friends with young Trebond if that’s what you fear.” Gareth reached for a nut and cracked it against his desk, feeling that the world had been set on its ear when a Gareth of Naxen was professing friendship to an Alan of Trebond. “Sons aren’t obligated to continue the wars of their fathers. In fact, it’s often best for the kingdom if they do not.” 

“Why are you at war with the Lord of Trebond?” Gary, mercilessly keen as ever, asked the question Gareth didn’t want to answer. 

He thought about replying repressively or dismissing his son without any response but knew that the boy would just dig into palace gossip buried long ago to satisfy his curiosity if Gareth didn’t sate it with the truth. 

“We’ve been in a war of wits since we were pages.” Gareth gnawed on his nut, glad to have something to crush between his teeth as he contemplated his acrimonious past with Lord Alan of Trebond. “When we were boys, he did something unforgivable. He beat me in a class, and, after that, I was forever determined to surpass him in everything.” 

Gareth could see in his son’s furrowed brow that he couldn’t comprehend Gareth’s vindictiveness. He hadn’t been born when Gareth’s father had opened a report on Gareth’s rank in every class, and, ignoring as irrelevant all the number ones, had fixated upon the lone, marring number two in philosophy. He hadn’t heard the man who would’ve jeered at philosophy as the feeble pursuit of the lily-livered in any other circumstance snap that this blighting mark must be improved immediately because King Jasson would never take a squire who was second best in anything. He hadn’t seen how Gareth had studied every night until his eyes bled and his head throbbed like a drunkard’s after too many tankards of ale in a blinding effort to be the smartest at everything. 

He couldn’t have understood any of that unrelenting motivation that was about loathing oneself as it was about hating an identified threat to one’s worth because Gareth had tried ever since his son made his wailing entrance into the world to not compare his heir to anybody else but just to his own potential. His son, whose mental agility often contorted Gareth’s thoughts in stunning ways, hadn’t been made to feel by his own father that he was a fool. 

“That’s all in the past.” Gareth’s jaw tightened as he extended his fingers toward his nut bowl again. “There’s no future living in the past, Gary, and neither your future nor young Trebond’s will be impacted by my history with the Lord of Trebond. You’ve my word on that.” He waited for the relieved grin to flicker across his son’s features before he waved a hand in dismissal. “Run along now. I know you’d rather spend your free time with your friends than a bitter old man like me.” 

Gary rose and bowed, muttering under his breath something that sounded suspiciously similar to: “I don’t have any free time thanks to bitter old men like you, Father.” 

“I rather think you don’t have any free time because you never sheathe that sharp tongue of yours, son.” Gareth shook his head at his son’s endless impertinence which seemed to guarantee an eternal abundance of punishment work for his heir. “Go before I assign you an extra hour of etiquette for your pertness.”


End file.
